


A Game of Bones

by GalaxyOwl13



Series: Moments and Memories [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Backstory, Chess, Chess Metaphors, Gen, One Shot, One Shot Collection, POV Third Person, Prompt Fill, Serial: s154 The Curse of Fenric, Short One Shot, well it's part of one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:01:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26239774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyOwl13/pseuds/GalaxyOwl13
Summary: "And what are the stakes?" Fenric asked, the sound echoing through the sand dunes."The same stakes as always," said the Doctor. "The fate of the world."---The Doctor binds Fenric with a game of chess. Not EU-compliant, but based on the serial The Curse of Fenric from the classic series.
Series: Moments and Memories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906012
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	A Game of Bones

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the National Whatever Day - September Edition challenge on a fanfiction dot net forum called Doctor Who Prompts and Challenges.  
> September 1st: American Chess Day - Write about a literal or metaphorical game of chess.

He walked alone, eyes set on the ground in front of him. With one hand, he held his hat down over his forehead to shade his face. The other was dedicated solely to his scarf, which he could swear had grown an extra few inches since he had visited the Nimon's complex. It was constantly getting caught beneath his shoes, being whipped into his face by the wind, and just generally getting in the way. It was at times like these when he wondered why he even wore it—that is, until he remembered one of the many instances it had saved his life.

"You know," he grumbled, "just because you're indispensable doesn't mean you have to be so bothersome."

The scarf, of course, did not respond.

The Doctor, on the other hand—for that was this wanderer's name—had very nearly reached his destination. The sand was beginning to grow thick in the air, making his eyes itch and his breaths difficult. Something did not want to be found.

Eventually, the sand thinned out, and the wind settled down to a light breeze. The sun was not so hot as before, though this did more to worry the Doctor than to reassure him. He would take a small sunburn over an ancient evil entity any day.

"The eye of the storm," he muttered, then glared at the empty space behind him, rather upset that no one was there to witness his brilliance.

He sat down upon one of the sand drifts, removing his boots and shaking them out. This would be a long wait.

Or not. Within moments, the sun was blotted out, the sky turning a dark, dismal grey. Slowly, deliberately, the Doctor stood up. He mustn't act shocked, or surprised, or scared. Those were weakness, and the entity he was waiting for could sniff out weakness a mile away.

It soon became clear that the force would not deign to take humanoid form so that it may converse with the traveler. Such actions were beneath them. It made the Doctor uncomfortable, to be facing and enemy he couldn't see, but he was careful not to let it know that.

"Are you one of my wolves, or shall you become my prey?" A voice boomed from all directions at once. The ground shook with the sound, and so did the sky.

"Neither," the Doctor said steadily. But his eyes flickered around like a caged animal. "I am a traveler, and I wish to challenge you to a game, Fenric."

"I have no need for the games of mortals," said the creature, Fenric, accompanying his words with a rasping chuckle.

"I am no mere mortal," the Doctor said. "I am a Time Lord."

"Those petty fools are no match for me," Fenric responded. "They make a kingdom of sand castles and call themselves rulers. Begone, lest I strike you down in your foolishness."

"If Time Lords are no match for you, then why not accept my challenge?" The Doctor asked.

"You speak with an impertinence that marks you as different from the others," Fenric said. "A game, you say?"

"A simple match of wits. To prove your dominance over the world."

"And what are the stakes?" Fenric asked, the sound echoing through the sand dunes.

"The same stakes as always," said the Doctor. "The fate of the world."

Fenric chuckled once more; a terrible sound that shook the Doctor to the bone. "A match of wits," he considered. "It would pass the time well. And you shall provide the trial?"

"Yes," the Doctor said.

"Very well, I accept," Fenric agreed.

"I shall need you to appear."

"Is this a trick, Time Lord?"

"No," the Doctor said. "No. I must see you so that you may play."

There was a moment when the Doctor thought he was to be swept off his feet by the raging storm, thought the shadows would eat him away until he was gleaming white bones in the sand. There were others there, he realized. Others who had come to challenge Fenric and lost. Or his former servants, his wolves, who had displeased him.

But the moment passed, as moments do. The air in front of him began to spin, faster and faster and faster, until the Doctor could see nothing but the spiraling sands. As suddenly as it had begun, it ended. In front of the Doctor stood a grotesque figure—not quite wolf, but not quite man either. Its eyes were yellow and sharp; hunter's eyes, glimmering with intelligence. Fur sprouted from its head in the place of hair, and its nose was snout-like. The creature had the torso of a wolf, but it stood on its hind legs and its arms, while hairy, were those of a human. Its lips curled to reveal sharp, razorlike fangs, dripping with bright red blood.

"Fenric," the Doctor acknowledged.

"Time Lord," Fenric said, with an incline of its head that was more of a challenge than a gesture of respect. "Where is this game you speak of?"

"I shall need time," the Doctor said. "To set it up."

"What is time to a Time Lord and an immortal?"

"Nothing," the Doctor replied.

"Yet you still feel the passing of the ages," Fenric growled. "Hurry, Time Lord, lest you wither away to dust. I shall enjoy watching that."

So, he set to work.

From the graveyard of Fenric's victims he pulled shining bones buried in sand, still echoing with the memories of times long ago. With these, he fashioned pieces, gleaming in the sunlight.

From his pocket, he retrieved a knife, blade as sharp as the claw of a wolf. With this, he carved the players of the ancient game, adding features in exquisite detail.

From the shadows, he drew darkness, slippery and difficult to grasp. With this, he turned half the pieces as black as the night, placing them on the board.

The sun rose and set twelve times before he had finished.

On the thirteenth sunrise, the Doctor stood from the place where he had worked. "I am ready," he said, and his voice did not waver.

"Chess?" Fenric asked incredulously. "You challenge me to a game of chess?"

"Checkmate in one, Fenric," said the Doctor. "Black wins in one move—if you can find it."

The sun made its way across the sky as Fenric stared at the board, refusing to move from his position. "I do not understand," he growled, face contorting into a snarl. "There is no move. Black cannot win."

"There is. I swear it on every star in the universe, on every timeline, on every possibility. I swear it on eternity, Fenric. Black wins in one move."

"Then I shall find it. Wait and see, Time Lord. Darkness always wins, given time."

The Doctor laughed as Fenric's face contorted into a snarl, his eyes frenzied as he puzzled through the game. But try as he might, he could not find the answer. And so, the Doctor slowly began his work. He tied his scarf around the creature's limbs, wrapping it around the chess board and securing him to the game forevermore.

With the shadows, he drowned Fenric, casting him deep into the darkness, where he could stay for eternity. With the chess set, he bound Fenric, trapping him within the shadow realm so that he could never escape. And with the sand, he buried Fenric, casting him away where none could find him ever again.

The Doctor stood alone on the sand, among the bones of the dead, clutching his hat and scarf. At his feet lay bones, half obscured by sand. At his feet lay chess pieces, gleaming white as they reflected the suns' rays. They were one and the same.

"I win," the Doctor muttered. He mourned the loss of his scarf, but he had a nice red one in the TARDIS that he could try. As he walked off into the desert, he let his mouth twist into a smile. "Granted, I did cheat a bit."


End file.
